


The Final Horseman

by cchilelli



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biblical Reinterpretation, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Themes (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical mythology - Freeform, Fantasy, Mythology References, Naive Original Main Character, Original Fiction, Original Mythology, Orphans, POV Original Female Character, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24520018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cchilelli/pseuds/cchilelli
Summary: All her life, Deathia has been resolved to marry a prince, even when others said it was folly. During an uprising, she has her chance to get close to the prince, but things become complicated when the prince begins to waste away. Could she ever marry a prince, a penniless orphan, or is there more to her life that she cannot explain?





	The Final Horseman

The Final Horseman  
Ever since she was a mere child, Deathia had only one dream, to marry a prince. No matter how much the headmistress at the orphanage had prodded her, she never let go of her dream, always saying that her status did not matter, a prince would simply fall in love with her for who she was. In fact, she believed he would be driven mad by his desire for her fine features, her raven hair, and her slight frame.  
At that time, there were three princes, all of whom struggled to keep each other at bay. But, that was of little consequence. On her eighteenth birthday, Deathia took a post at Prince Faminine’s palace as a maid, in hopes that he would fall madly in love with her. For days, she did minor chores, such as mopping and sweeping the halls, until one day, she saw her chance.  
"Gloria, get in here now!" Deathia’s boss screeched to no avail, as the girl never appeared, “You must take the prince his dinner!”  
Stepping forward, Deathia smiled. "I'll do it ma'am.”  
"Are you sure, Deathia? The prince can be mighty difficult about things like this.”  
"Of course, I would be happy to," she assured her, finally finding her chance to interact with him.  
Eagerly, she set aside her wooden stick she was using to light candles and took the tray of food. From days of waxing the hallways, she already knew where the prince's room was. Taking a deep breath in hopes of preventing her shaking hand from rattling the tray, she knocked on the door.  
"Come in," the prince's voice answered from within. Putting on her grandest smile, she opened the door.  
"I will only be a moment, my lord,” she explained, her excitement was nearly betrayed in her voice.  
"Very well,” he muttered, obviously uninterested though he was doing nothing but reading a book.  
"Tis a fine night tonight, isn't it, sir?" she asked, taking her chance while she had it.  
"Is it customary for servants to mingle with their superior, furthermore, their prince?" he scoffed, looking directly at her as she stood, gawking at him.  
"Oh, I apologize, my lord, I am afraid I am not usually a serving maid. I usually just tend the halls and clean,” she muttered, still standing in place.  
“I will tell you now, it is not! Now give me that food,” he demanded. Terrified, she rushed over to the table and set the tray down.  
"Have a lovely evening, my lord.”  
Tears burning in her eyes, she walked into the hallway with a bowed head, sad by his quick dismissal and the dreams he had so carelessly crushed. Even if he did not love her, she still loved him.  
At that time, the prince Faminine began to overtax his peasants. He gathered up nearly all the food of the land and sold it off for gold. It was not long before poverty fell upon the land, and the overtaxed peasants found their fields failing to produce. They had overworked their soil, rendering it useless. The land grew dry, the fields turning to dust. In his great palace, Faminine desperately tried to purchase back food, even just mere grains but the other lands had fallen to famine as well. However, they prepared in years of abundance and had just enough to sustain their people, unlike he, who squandered his wealth. The people began to starve, the land began to fail. Soon, even the prince himself found it difficult to keep mere bread on his table.  
During the famine, Deathia had started to appear ever more beautiful. Her body was thinned by hunger, but it only exaggerated her natural hourglass shape. It was then, in the midst of the famine, as starvation raged, that the prince began to descend into madness. Finally, in desperation, he mounted his cream-colored steed and set out to the west in order to seek refuge in another land, for his peasants began to revolt. Refusing to surrender her dream, Deathia collected her black stallion from the stables and accompanied him. Yet, just a day later, the prince collapsed, weak from starvation.  
The days past, and she tended to Faminine. From her years in the orphanage, she had learned how to hunt and how to scavenge the land. That night, the first night, she built a fire, and a small lean-to shelter. While the prince lounged in the shelter, she went out and managed to hunt a squirrel and a few birds. It would be enough meat for a few days. As she knelt by the fire, roasting her meager amount of food, Faminine finally stirred.  
“You will be rewarded for you loyalty,” he muttered on thin breath.  
“I will?” she asked.  
“Indeed, you will be my future queen’s maid. A finer position could be coveted by none.”  
“I mean no offense, but I am to marry a prince. I have no desire for a life of servitude.”  
Faminine laughed out, his weak body racked as the sound escaped in little more than a wheeze: “That’ll be the day.”  
Deathia stared into the fire, hurt by his words and his mockery. The great Warren of the south, he would want her. Upon his fiery red bay stallion, he had charged into battle, undefeated in war. Never once had he fought simply out of necessity. It was always for the glory.  
In her anger, Deathia only gave Faminine a small portion of meat, simply out of spite. For days, this went on, he expected her to serve him. Yet she refused to. Slowly, he lost more weight, until he became a hollow shell of his previous self. She did not care, so great was her fury. One night, he stopped breathing. The following morning, he emerged from the lean-to, hollow and empty. His eyes had sunken back in his skull, his body had aged decades. His once delicate hands had become no more than the ropes of veins and skin that hung over the thin bones. His hair, once long and blonde, had turned to white wisps.  
"Faminine?" she called out, "What is wrong with you?"  
There came no reply from the white-eyed prince as he slowly climbed atop his pale stallion, which had turned to bones and baggy skin to match him master. He turned his back to her, going to fulfill a destiny which no man nor beast could understand, leaving naught but wilting, dying grass in his wake. Deathia stood in silence, dumbfound at what had just happened. Mounting her own dark beast, she turned to the south, towards the land of Warren, and spurred him forward.  
Finally, she neared some hidden town with roofs of red. Her stallion stampeded through the cobblestone streets, for she did not pull him back to her even for a moment. They thundered across the drawbridge, approaching the gates at a full gallop. Finally, she pulled him back, dragging him into a walk. The horse obeyed, huffing from the long run and soaked in sweat.  
"I have news from Faminine's palace. You must let me speak to the prince!" she cried out desperately, knowing she needed to spread the news.  
The guards whisked her from room to room, asking her various questions and trying to determine if she was reliable and sound of mind. Finally, they led her up to the red and black crested doors which led to Warren's chamber room. They brought her before the throne, and her heart pounded. Despite the desperation of the situation, she was thrilled to meet another prince. Surely, he would see how brave she had been, to deliver the news to him and his kingdom?  
Kneeling before the throne, she saw the young prince. He was far more stunning then Faminine. His hair was red, and his face was freckled, yet he was extremely mature for having such an immature, even boyish face.  
"I hear you bring news, from the kingdom of Faminine?" he asked.  
"Yes, my lord. I have come from there, and something very strange has happened. I am afraid I cannot describe it, but I can tell you the prince is no longer well. The kingdom is falling,” she reported, her voice shaking a little.  
"The kingdom is falling?" he repeated back to her, surprised.  
"Yes, my lord and prince. The kingdom is falling,”  
"That is excellent news!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his throne, "Rally the troops! We will march to Faminine's kingdom by dawn!" he ordered, gesturing to the man on his left.  
"My lord, you intend to bring them aid?" she asked, confused.  
"Aid? Never! It is the time for war! I can conquer their kingdom, easily, if it is falling as you say. Nothing will stand in my way now, I will dominate them!"  
The following morning, Warren, with Deathia by his side, mounted his great red bay stallion. At his bidding, she swung up onto her black horse. "For bringing the news, you will be awarded great honors,” he promised.  
Her heart leapt. "I shall?" she asked, believing she would finally have her prince.  
"Of course! You will have 1/100 of the plunder! It seems the only fair prize for the one who bore us such glorious news!" he replied.  
And her heart sank deep into her chest again. "I see,” she muttered, her voice trailing off.   
"Why do you look so gloomy? We ride to war!" he cried, rallying his troops. All around her, the men shouted and jeered. The wanted blood. And blood they would find.  
A day and a half, they rode towards Faminine's kingdom. On the first day, Warren, executed three men that he declared to be traitors. He was paranoid. Paranoid that even on a conquest to take over a kingless kingdom he would be betrayed. On the second day, he began to become even more worried. He confided his fears in Deathia, who tried to brush them away. When she did, he became filled with rage, and drew his knife, trying to stab her. To save herself, she struck him fiercely across the jaw and managed to escape, only to cry her tale for all to hear. In a matter of moments, the camp divided. Those loyal to Warren, who wanted her dead, and those opposing him, who believed her innocent.  
For three hours, full-fledged battle waged. It was civil war, countryman against countryman without a solidified cause. It was certainly not over Deathia. It was something deeper. In the end, it came down to Deathia and Warren. Warren and his men had killed off every other man there. Then, slowly, he turned on his own men, calling them traitors. Each man was picked off in turn. When the dust settled, Deathia, even more beautiful than before with glossy black hair and a petrified expression across her round, pale face, stepped forward.  
"Warren, look at what you have done. What is this? What is the matter with you?" she asked, carefully drawing near to him.  
Yet he did not respond. His mind was elsewhere, lost and fixated on something. As though in a dream, he moved towards his horse and mounted, not even blinking.  
"Warren! Warren, stop! Where are you going?" she pleaded.  
Even when she grabbed the hem of his shirt he did fail to cease his actions. Instead, the settled into the saddle and gathered up his reins. His horse, turned from a valiant stallion into a fierce, fiery mount that no human in their right mind would touch. His coat turned to blazing fire. His breath had turned to smoke in quick, gasping breaths. His mere body seemed to double in height and strength. In his eyes was the very essence of war. The same look of wild glee mixed with pure hatred as his master. The stallion reared, striking the air sending sparks slowly drifting to their demise on the grass beneath. Together, they launched into the night and disappeared into the forest, leaving behind a trail of fire which soon turned to naught but blackened earth.  
And again, Deathia mounted her great black stallion. Lost and alone once more, she turned him to the final kingdom, the land of the Prince Pestiline. When she arrived, she found the kingdom already in disarray, having descended to chaos upon hearing the news of the other kingdoms. As she rode through the street, people on either side watching her wide-eyed with fear.  
Just as she had at the gates of Warren’s kingdom, she begged audience to the guards. To her surprise, she was permitted entrance and taken straight to the Prince who stood at the edge of the throne room, clad all in green.  
“My lord, the other kingdoms have fallen,” she explained, still trying to make sense of it herself, “I fear your kingdom is to be next,”  
“Why would we be the ones to escape?” he asked, stifling a cough and calling for a handkerchief to be brought to him.  
She turned head a bit, studying the man before her. His pale green eyes were empty. Not hollow, but empty, as though he found no joy in life anymore. As she watched him, he too turned his head to the side, mimicking her.  
“What do you mean, milord? Surely you do not believe me?” she asked.  
“My people fear the plague. It is working its way through neighboring lands already, why should be an exception?”  
“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.  
“Then please, stay a few days,” he invited, then instructed his servants to prepare a room for her.  
She felt her heart flutter despite his first off-putting impression. As he neared her, he extended his arm out towards her. Gently, he rested his arm on her lower back and ushered her to the dining room, where he took supper with her. No man, price or otherwise, had ever treated her in such a way. She could look past the wide, bird-like eyes of the man, see more than the long features. This would be her prince.  
In the days that followed, the plague began to spread. All around her, people grew sick and ill, only to die within a few days. The sickness spread, and there were none to bury the bodies. All the while, Deathia once again progressed in beauty, her appearance irresistibly angelic to those around her. But soon, despite her excitement about being invited to stay by a prince, her lofty expectations were once again crushed.   
The transformation came to him when he had invited Deathia out to survey the ruin befalling his people. His eyes grew ever hollower and the green of his eyes turned pale and spread over across his iris. His skin began to wrinkle and cover in boils. His mouth began to sag open, revealing green froth within. Dead-eyed, he took a dark bay stallion from a villager and swung up. The deep, glossy brown looked almost green in the sunlight. Almost instantly, the stallion festered and wasted, then began to drool green froth from his lips. Pestiline turned his horse away, and slowly departed the city, leaving ailing people in his wake.  
Laden with grief and confusion, Deathia mounted her black stallion once more. She rode him away from the lands of the princes, back to the place in which she was raised, attempting to escape what seemed to be her inevitable sorrows. She knew the place, an old bridge on which many a person had fallen to their death, intentional or not. That would be the place of her end.  
Nearing the bridge, she swung from her stallion, giving him a final kiss on the nose and thanking him for his service. As soon as she stepped onto the bridge, Deathia felt it quiver beneath her feet. It was old, crumbling and barely used. The grey of the stone sat dulled, unshining in the light of the half-moon. The dark water tumbled below, the sound of it filled her ears. Her eyes were red, though no more tears did she shed. Taking a deep breath, she stepped further onto the worn wood. It creaked again, but she did not so much as glance back. Instead, her bare feet sough another step onto the rough wood. Another deep breath, sucking in the crisp night air mixed with the spray of the river below. Not even for a moment did she want to turn back. The thought did not cross her mind. All her life, cursed. Ignored, rejected, followed by sorrow. There was no more for her here. She had tried to hope, to be happy, yet this was her fate. It always had been.  
Her dark blue cotton dress whipped up; tossed by the breeze. Her raven hair danced around her, not bound by its master. Step after step, she neared the center of the bridge. Placing her palms on the stone side, she climbed up onto the rocky edge and stood slave to the wind’s command. Stretching out her arms, she let the violent night batter her. There was no more for her. Faminine had starved, Warren was crazed by conflict, and Pestiline was taken by illness. So they had become what they had been destined to be: Famine, War, and Pestilence, but she had yet to enter her place in the story. She had been rejected by all of three of them. Desperate for love and acceptance, only to be met with scorn. Never before had death touched the land with such ferocity, yet now, people bowed down in her wake.  
One final breath and she stepped of the bridge, letting herself fall to the icy rapids below. Yet, death did not take her, for she herself was death. Instead, she rose from the waters, her dress turned white as snow and her hair suspended weightless wisps around her face. For the final time, she sought out her horse and mounted him. She would follow the three who she loved, watching from afar, yet never at their side. For in the end, Death follows War, and Famine, and Pestilence.


End file.
